


Shoot

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Minor Violence, Performance Art, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9424235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: Tyler wants Josh's help on an art project. Josh agrees, but he isn't too sure why Tyler wants to know if he ever shot a gun before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: "shoot" by chris burden
> 
> translation into русский available: [Shoot](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5180445/13347547) by [neighvael](https://ficbook.net/authors/418104)

They're split into pairs in the lecture hall. With his legs pulled into the seat with him, Tyler is somehow too small and too big. The assigned reading balances on the tops of his knees, an odd line here and there highlighted. They're split into pairs, supposed to be discussing what they're going to say in front of the class, but Tyler's packet is still on the first page, and he's more preoccupied with peeling the skin from his lips.

Josh, on the other hand, tries to be productive. "So, did you get what this guy was trying to say about Cimabue?" His highlighting is more on topic.

Tyler is quiet. He doesn't participate much in class, just mostly sits there, dazed, a pen in his hand, but never writing down anything. He was like this in their English class last semester, always staring at the board. Josh wondered if Tyler was smart, if he just didn't need to take any notes. He passed, though, must have, or had department approval to advance in classes. It doesn't matter, really, because Tyler's here, and Josh is sitting next to him in this lecture hall, waiting for his insight on the article they were supposed to read by class today.

But Tyler is quiet, and he has now taken to staring at Josh rather than the article.

Josh doesn't consider them friends. Sure, they're _Facebook_ _friends_ , but he's friends with most people he's had more than a few classes together on there. Josh and Tyler see each other on campus from time to time, printing in the library, grabbing food, walking and walking. They don't wave. They make eye contact and move along. Josh thinks they haven't even held a conversation before this encounter.

"Well, I think he was an ass," Josh says.

"Can you help me with something?" Tyler still stares, never wavering, lips bleeding. "It's for a project."

Josh blinks. "What sort of project?"

"Art project," Tyler specifies, but doesn't specify further. Josh is left hanging, concentrated on the blood beading on the opened cracks of Tyler's bottom lip. There isn't even time to respond, for the professor snaps their students' attention to the podium at the front of the room.

"Let's start with Josh and Tyler. What did you two think was the author's main topic?"

They said Josh's name first because Josh is expected to speak. Josh is expected to be the good kid who studies and listens and leaves his peers behind in the mud. But Josh doesn't talk. He's staring at Tyler, and Tyler is staring at the professor. Tyler speaks. "He said art can only be wielded by those God blessed. The artists of his time were put on pedestals and treated like royalty," Tyler says, and glances at Josh, as if wanting reassurance. His eyes look dead. Josh's smile falls flat.

The professor congratulates Tyler, and then moves to another group.

Tyler swipes his tongue over the drying blood on his lips and mouths, "Help me."

And Josh sees no other option than to mouth an "okay" back.

*

After class, they walk side by side out of the building, Tyler a little more beat down than Josh. Josh doesn't ask why. He gets to the point. "So, what do you need help with?"

Outside, remnants of the last rainfall puddles the ends of asphalt. They're up on the sidewalk, but they ditch the road to duck into a shortcut back to the center of campus.

Tyler asks, "Have you ever shot a gun before?" So out of left field, Josh reasons it's due to Tyler's mind racing. Tyler may not have heard Josh's question.

"Yeah, I did at, like, summer camp. Why?"

But Tyler doesn't provide a follow-up. He zips his jacket up to his chin, then pulls it down to his chest. "Friday. Are you free Friday?"

"Friday as in tomorrow?"

Tyler nods.

"Yeah." No classes, no part-time job, Josh normally sleeps in on Fridays. He doesn't expect they're doing anything super early, though.

"My friend and I rented out this studio space for the weekend. Figured it would be easier to do it there."

"Why do you need my help if you already have your friend helping you?"

"He's filming it."

"Oh." Josh spots the leftover traces of dried paint on Tyler's vans. "So, we're doing a timelapse or something?"

"Or something."

Bare trees and afternoon sun, the center of campus is as busy as any other Thursday—even more so now with the first touch of sunlight creeping from the part in the clouds. It's warm. Tyler rubs his face.

"So," Josh says again, "tomorrow?"

Tyler shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. "Yeah."

"You can send me the location of this place on Facebook, okay?" Josh is trying to take a leave of Tyler, trying to weasel their way into parting.

And Tyler notices. He doesn't look surprised. "Facebook, yeah. I'll see ya later, Josh."

Josh allows himself a brief moment of guilt before he scurries to his dorm to nap.

*

Tyler messages him that night. Josh recognizes the address and decides the distance is suitable to walk.

 _What time?_ he asks, and Tyler confirms with a _5_.

Around ten that night, Tyler updates his status to a very cryptic "tomorrow". Comments are separated into thirds; one is curious, another is excited, and the last is scolding.

Since he doesn't know how to take this, Josh logs off and goes to sleep.

*

It's four thirty, and Josh shoves half a granola bar into his mouth. Chewy and chocolate chip, it's his breakfast and lunch and possibly an early dinner. He laces up his boots and sticks his phone in his pocket after sending a quick message to let Tyler know he's on his way. Josh wears old clothing—jeans with holes, a shirt with the design fading—because he thinks they might be painting. He doesn't know what else would dictate a person being there to film their progress.

Tyler replies, _cool_ , and Josh walks to the studio Tyler rented, more than a little anxious.

An old warehouse, open to any and all artists looking for a space to be themselves, Tyler is leaned against the brick of the building, the butt of a joint between his index fingertip and thumb. He's dressed in a similar fashion and seems simultaneously preoccupied with a crack in the sidewalk and his phone when Josh approaches him.

"Hey," Josh says.

"Hi," Tyler says, and grinds the heel of his foot into his joint. "You ready?" He pockets his phone.

"Uh, are _you_ ready?"

Tyler looks at peace. He smiles. "Yeah."

They go inside, Tyler holding open the door and Josh ducking his head.

Upon entry, Josh meets eyes with Mark, a film student who either has a minor in art or who really likes hanging with the art kids. What the reasoning is doesn't matter. Mark's cool. Mark's here to help Tyler.

"What's up, dude?" Josh greets, and Mark raises his hand for a high-five. Their palms connect, and Tyler wanders inside behind Josh, around Mark and Josh, toward the other side of the room.

"Tyler told me he found someone to help out, but he didn't tell me it was you." Mark is sitting in a chair the wrong way, his legs draped over the arm. His bag of equipment rests on the floor next to him. "You do know what you're doing, right?"

A scuffle, Tyler's feet shuffle along the room as he unwraps a tarp. White in color, Josh anticipates what it might look like after… whatever they're doing.

He furrows his brow. "Not exactly, no." He watches Tyler continue to unroll the tarp. "I thought it was, like… art."

"Art, right." Mark sounds annoyed, tired. He swings his legs off the arm of the chair and moves to stand. "Tyler, you didn't fucking tell Josh what you were doing, did you?" His voice echoes off the four walls, the room vast and void, except for the small sitting arrangement in the corner. A closet is off to the side, home to easels and more makeshift shelving for the working artist.

Tyler doesn't need anything else. He has a tarp and a duffel bag. He's digging inside the duffel bag now, not looking at Mark. "I asked him," he says.

"Asked me what?" Josh interjects, seeing Mark from the corner of his eye step forward. Josh starts over to Tyler, his boots thudding on the concrete flooring. The tarp does little to muffle the reverberations.

"Mark, get your camera ready." Tyler ignores Josh. He's still rummaging in the duffel bag.

"Tyler, you didn't—" Josh doesn't finish. Tyler is upright again, the duffel bag empty and a .22 rifle in his hand. He's checking for bullets. Josh grows ill. "Jesus Christ, Tyler."

"I asked you," Tyler says, and he stares at Josh with those dead eyes of his. Mark, at the edge of the tarp, shakes his head, but drags out his tripod and camera all the same. He's setting up at an angle, wide enough to capture Josh and Tyler both—more so Tyler. No doubt his reaction will be vital.

"I asked you," Tyler says, "if you ever shot a gun before." And he holds out the gun for Josh to take, and Josh knows he's lost several pigments of color in his face.

"I, I, I, dude, what the hell?"

Mark shakes his head more. His camera is on, waiting, rolling, capturing the moment Josh raises his hand and lets it hover for several seconds.

Tyler is patient. "Just need you to graze me."

"How reassuring." Josh still doesn't take the gun. He's begun shaking, and he wonders how it'll look on film.

"Josh, please." Tyler might start crying. He's begging for Josh to take the incentive, _to take the fucking gun and shoot him_. "It's for art."

Anything can be art. If an artist says it's art, it's art. Josh despises Marcel Duchamp.

He takes the gun.

Mark covers his face with his hands. Tyler moves across the tarp, one foot after the other. Slow motion, the world's axis ceasing its rotation, Josh notices Tyler's t-shirt is white. The tarp is white, the walls are white, Tyler's t-shirt is white.

Josh's palms are sweaty. The rifle is heavy in his hands.

The studio doors open and close. Familiar faces appear, and then some. All are the same; they're fucking frightened, and yet, they watch this unfold. Tyler's Facebook status updates were for this. He wanted an audience. He has an audience.

"My arm," Tyler says, too far away and too close. "Graze my arm."

Josh raises the gun. He's shaking. He holds his breath and thinks it will be enough.

Gasping, palms slapping over mouths, their peers are anxious and eager. They peek from between their fingers and gnaw on the insides of cheeks.

Josh aims. He isn't breathing. Josh aims at the wall. He isn't breathing. He isn't breathing.

"Know where you're gonna do this, Josh?" Tyler's lips are bleeding. He's chewing on them, head tilted to the side.

Josh doesn't move. He has his eyes on the wall, on Tyler's arm, on the wall. "Are you ready?" Josh asks, barely above a whisper, but he swears he sees Tyler nod.

Josh pulls the trigger.

Someone squeals. Someone shouts. Someone stomps.

Nobody moves.

Tyler's swaying on the spot, his right hand cupping his left arm, his bicep, fingers curling, mouth opening, no words coming to the surface. He's ghastly. His shirt is white. The tarp is drip, drip, dripping red.

Josh didn't graze Tyler's arm.

"I didn't graze your arm," Josh says.

"You didn't graze my arm," Tyler says.

"Holy shit," Mark says.

Tyler's walking, a little unsure, his footsteps heavy. "Look," he mumbles to Josh, lips not even moving as he removes his palm, oily with blood. "You shot me."

Josh wants to cry. He's shaking. He never stopped shaking. Someone screams for an ambulance.

"I'm sorry." Josh watches the blood run down Tyler's arm and stain every patch of skin and hair it touches. It twists around the rubber band on Tyler's wrist.

"Don't apologize." Tyler smiles. "You made me into a sculpture."

*

In the emergency room, Tyler sits between Josh and Mark. The grin plastered onto his face has never once lessened.

Mark is visibly upset, but he doesn't vocalize this. Supportive so far, he seems to understand Tyler's motivations, even though they might be blind to Josh as of now. He's scared he might be tossed into a jail cell any minute.

Tyler's smile is unnerving.

*

Mark drives them to campus and says he'll clean the studio tomorrow, along with editing the film to upload to YouTube.

"Or whatever you want to do with it."

Tyler's arm is wrapped in thick bandages. The nurse who cleaned him said the wound was superficial. "Just a lot of blood."

Josh says to Mark, "I can help, if you want. Cleaning."

"I'll get Michael to help me. Just… go to bed."

Mark lives off campus, while Josh and Tyler occupy the dorms. It's late, and they walk side by side.

Tyler is still smiling.

"Why?" Josh asks, and Tyler, surprisingly, offers an explanation.

"Have you ever seen someone get shot? You haven't, right? Most people haven't. We're desensitized to fake violence. This… _this_ was real." Moon high in the sky, Tyler's shoe is untied, and his arm is limp as it hangs damaged. He's smiling, expected, but it's fainter now, a little guilty.

Josh's head hurts. "Tyler, that…" He sighs, and Tyler actually laughs.

"Yeah, _that_."

"Does it hurt?"

Tyler curls his fingers. "The pot helped."

Their feet have stopped. They're stuck in the center of the campus, need to go their separate ways. Josh can't bring himself to leave Tyler. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be safe.

"Do you have somewhere to be? Will your roommate miss you?"

Tyler shakes his head.

"Well, my roommate's probably out. He leaves me alone most weekends. Want to come to my room?" Josh leaves it at that, and that's okay.

Tyler doesn't say his agreement. He merely gives a stunted nod, and they begin their trip to Josh's dorm.

It's quiet. Tyler is quiet. He's picking at his lips. "Did we have homework?"

"I don't think so."

"Cool."

Josh frowns. "Tyler, how can I make it up to you? You told me not to apologize, but I feel so damn bad, and—"

"Take me out."

Josh stumbles, furrowing his brow. "Like, like, uh, a date?"

Tyler smiles. It's kind. "Yes." His eyes are alive.

Heart racing for all the right reasons, Josh's grin only perks at Tyler's continued beaming. "All right."


End file.
